


Just Stopped Working For Me

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Movie Star Derek, Soul Bond, Writer Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never expected to meet Derek Hale. He definitely never expected the movie star to slide into his cab and ask for his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Stopped Working For Me

**Author's Note:**

> For my poor benighted comedicdrama.

The taxi was stopped in an enormous queue of traffic. There was nothing unusual there. In fact, Stiles was beginning to wonder why he’d even bothered hailing a cab. He should have taken the subway or walked – twenty blocks would keep him more fit than a trip to the gym. It didn’t have the advantages of the gym, of course. Most of Stiles’s casual hook ups came from there nowadays. But something about the way the wind curved wickedly around corners, knives out, driving the rain like spikes into his face had made him step into the street, raise his arm and seek sanctuary in the yellow haven.

“Looks like a premier or something,” the taxi driver muttered. Stiles looked up from his notepad. He had dragged it out when it became apparent that they weren’t going anywhere fast. He scrubbed some of the condensation from the window with his sleeve and looked out to see limos and lots of lights and camera flashes. There were searchlights fighting through the every present city haze and the dull, persistent rain. Stiles couldn’t see much from the back seat so he made a non-committal noise and returned to his notes. His characters weren’t listening to him - or, more precisely, weren’t telling him what they wanted to do next. He had a choice, of course. They could fall in love, live happily ever after. But the way Stiles was feeling, all he wanted them to do was fuck angrily and spend the rest of the novel spinning out of control.

Never let it be said that he didn’t bring himself into the text. If, you know, anyone got to the point of analyzing his writing like that.

The door to the cab opened and a figure slid in beside Stiles. 

“This cab is-“ The words dried up in his throat as he took in the figure that had invaded his taxi. Stiles suddenly found himself looking at an impossibly gorgeous man. One whose face he knew just as well as his own, in some ways, being as he’d jerked off to him – the image, the memory, the fantasy – since this perfect human being had come to his attention. Derek Hale – Derek Freaking Hale – was sitting beside him. And Derek oh-my-god Hale was trembling.

“Sorry.” His voice was higher than Stiles expected, and softer. Derek Hale watched him carefully, obviously expecting Stiles to freak out or scream or something. “I just had to…”

They were interrupted by two things. One was the taxi driver turning around wide-eyed. The other was the flash of a camera through the steamed up window, rapidly followed by what seemed like a thousand more. Derek shrank back against the seat, closer to Stiles. He was all dressed up, immaculate tuxedo, perfect hair. It was hard to see what Derek was afraid of. But something really wasn’t right.

“How much?” Stiles asked, before fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. He grabbed a twenty and passed it through the gap in the Perspex shield between him and the driver. Then he took Derek’s arm and pulled him closer. Derek slid across the seat, looking lost and alone and completely out of it. Stiles was surprised by how much he wanted to take care of Derek, wanted to look after him and wipe that panicked expression from his eyes. He tried to ignore the way electricity seemed to be crawling over his skin from just the brief touch of his hand against Derek’s wrist.

The photographers were making their way around the cab, snarling up the traffic more than they had before. Stiles could hear them now, shouting Derek’s name, shouting taunts. They only had a moment.

“Trust me?” Stiles asked, before he opened the door and barreled out, tugging Derek behind him. Derek came and slid his hand into Stiles’s as they ran for the nearest cross-street. They were only a few blocks from Stiles’s apartment anyway. Derek kept pace with him as they ducked past pedestrians, in front of cars screeching horns, ignoring the shouts and the yells and the “Is that…?” from behind them. Stiles was focused on two things: the need to get Derek out of the public eye and the strange warmth that was pulsing up his hand from where Derek had a firm grasp on his hand.

 

His apartment wasn’t much to look at – ordinary front door, three broad concrete steps up from the street, tiled hallway that was clean if not particularly modern and an old beaten elevator that worked most of the time, except on the hottest of days. Stiles had to fumble his keys out one-handed. Derek didn’t seem disinclined to let go of his hand, basically ever. The elevator was…crowded. Intimate. They were both tall guys for all that there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on either of them. Stiles’s lack of fat seemed to be due to his insane metabolism, maybe a holdover from the ADD he’d mostly grown out of. Derek, on the other hand, was solid muscle. He was whipcord thin. Stiles knew this because the tiny elevator car forced them to basically stand pressed close and he could feel his heartbeat start to race just at the fact he could finally see Derek’s mesmerizing eyes up close and personal.

It had probably been the eyes that made Stiles fix on Derek most of all. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of hot men in films and TV or modeling. Not even ones who had dark hair and permanent stubble. There was just something different about Derek Hale. But even that fantasy figure was giving way under the reality of the situation. Derek’s hand was cold, his fingers gripping tight. Stiles could feel the puff of his breath against his collarbone, smell Derek’s cologne. They still hadn’t spoken much to each other. Derek was looking less freaked out though, as the elevator finally stumbled up the last few floors and halted with a worrying rattle.

“Well, this is me.” Stiles hesitated outside his door. “It’s not much.”

Derek bit at his bottom lip as Stiles pushed the door open. He wasn’t lying. His apartment had originally been the attic, converted into a single space, with a tiny bathroom in one corner. He’d kept the walls white and the furniture pushed up against the walls, but there wasn’t that much space. He did have a view over the nearby rooftops, the lights of the city, the skyscrapers uptown just visible. His bed was the only luxurious thing in the place, a massive old bedframe that had been near impossible to get up the stairs, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“You’ve got a lot of books.” Derek turned in a slow circle as Stiles locked the door behind him.

“Yeah. I read. I’m a writer. So reading-“ Stiles swallowed. “I like books.”

“Me too.” Derek moved further into the room, looking out of the steeply pitched window over the city, watching the rain trace streams down the glass. “Nice view.”

“It is. Not like… I bet it doesn’t compare with some of the view you’ve seen.” Stiles was aware he’d said the wrong thing almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Derek’s shoulders tightened and he turned away from the window, hands in his pockets, ducking his head. It was more than just the physical reaction though. A sour sense of wrongness curled in his gut. “Shit. Can I get you anything?” 

Derek looked down at the ruin of his suit. “A towel? Maybe. If it’s not trouble or anything.”

Stiles stared at him a moment, mouth wide, before he snapped it shut. Trouble? As if anything would be too much trouble. Derek kept his head down though, as if expecting Stiles to say no, to shout at him, something. Yeah, something was really wrong here. The thought was a low rumble in the back of his head as he pulled a towel out of the basket that substituted for closet space and tossed it in Derek’s direction. Stiles realized that they were both soaked through and started rummaging for clothes. He and Derek were pretty much the same height but Derek was much broader across the shoulders. Eventually Stiles came up with a pair of sweats and a t-shirt he’d been given by Scott – well-meaning but ultimately kinda useless as it was three sizes too big.

Looking lost, Derek was holding on to the towel. Clutching it, more accurately. His knuckles were white against the dark blue material. Stiles eased it from Derek’s hand, the warmth from before more marked as their hands touched.

“Hey, man,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Seriously, you okay?”

“I’m…” Derek swallowed hard. His skin was red where he’d rubbed the towel over it, too hard, too rough. Stiles didn’t press. 

“I’m going to hide in the bathroom while you get changed. And wrestle my clothes off. Just – take your time.” Stiles tried to sound upbeat and cheery and all positive. A sudden wave of fondness rolled over him, soft and warm, and he smiled automatically, much more genuinely. There was even a small smile on Derek’s face.

 

Stiles sat on his toilet and looked at the mirror above his tiny sink and wondered what the hell he was thinking. Normally if someone invaded your cab, you’d just want to punch them or you’d be in danger of having your wallet stolen or something. You didn’t grab them by the hand and run through the streets of New York like some ridiculous romantic comedy. You certainly didn’t bring them home and let them wear your clothes and hide in the bathroom and let them poke through all your wordly belongings, no matter how famous they were. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, pulling it into weird spikes. Maybe he should buzz it back again to the way he’d worn it in high school.

There was a soft knock at the bathroom door. “He-ey. I’m done.“ Derek still sounded hesitant and uncomfortable.

Stiles opened the door to see Derek rolling his hands in the bottom of his t-shirt. It was ridiculously big on Derek too, hanging low around his neck and revealing his collarbone and a flash of dark hair. Stiles looked away from that, looked up, hoping Derek didn’t catch him perving. “Coffee? Beer? I might have some tea somewhere? Juice?” 

“Coffee would be nice,” Derek said, letting Stiles come out of the tiny bathroom. Derek had folded his clothes neatly on the floor on top of his shoes and was padding about bare foot. That made Stiles’s brain again start to head towards uncomfortable places. He shouldn’t be thinking of Derek as hot and sexy and maybe responsible for Stiles’s developing toe fetish. There was obviously something up and Stiles was a nobody and this insanely famous actor would be out of his life the minute he could.

 

Derek perched on the bar stool while Stiles made coffee. The tiny counter stuck out from the wall to carve the space into sections. This was supposed to be the kitchen bit. Normally Stiles ate at his desk, or on his bed, or out. He didn’t cook so much as reheat, relying on his microwave and his take out menus more than he really should.

There was something oddly soothing about someone sitting on the other side of the counter, though, for all that the space seemed crowded with the two of them in it, oddly electric. Stiles could make coffee while mostly asleep so it didn’t take too much of his concentration. Instead he watched Derek. But instead of Derek looking better, Derek continued to look pale and grey, with beads of sweat making his hair curl at his temples.

“I’m Stiles.” It suddenly occurred to Stiles that he hadn’t introduced himself.

Derek looked at him steadily, before dropping his eyes to the counter. “Derek. Hale. I’m Derek Hale.”

It was on the tip of Stiles’s tongue to say ‘I know’ but something stopped him. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied, stretching out his hand. Derek watched it like it might bite for a long moment before reaching out and shaking. Again, that warm, _happy_ feeling seemed to flow up Stiles’s arm.

 

It was only when Derek had drunk his coffee, still perched on Stiles’s stool, eyes flicking around the room, that Stiles realized he’d have to leave probably sooner rather than later. The idea of Derek walking out of his life just as unexpectedly as he’d entered it made him feel unaccountably angry. Derek continued to look shaky. Instead of his eyes clearing with the infusion of caffeine, Derek’s eyes seemed to look more cloudy.

“Do you… This isn’t a come on. But.” Stiles drummed his fingers nervously on his mug before looking at Derek who was swaying. “Do you want to sleep here? Just sleep. No funny business.” 

Derek raised his hand, slowly, as if it weighed as much as an ocean liner. He laid his hand on Stiles’s neck, curling his fingers towards the nape. The warmth was back, fizzing through Stiles’s blood. Derek didn’t say anything, just holding on.

“You want me to call anyone? A doctor?” Stiles was worried. This close he could see Derek’s pulse racing. There was something really wrong.

“Maybe-“ Derek shook his head. “Could I shower? There’s… I think this cologne. It’s new.” Stiles nodded, hoping he hid the way his own pulse speeded up. “It’s itching.” Now he was standing so close to Derek, Stiles could see the stipple of irritation low on his throat, trailing down under the ridiculously huge t-shirt. He had a moment of thinking about Derek naked and wet and in his shower and he was ashamed to feel his cock jump. He wasn’t even sure when it had filled to half hard. Derek seemed to be removing his inhibitions and his normal awareness, fuzzing up his senses.

“Sure, man. Not a problem. Hey. I have towels.” Stiles moved towards the basket, pulling out the last of his fresh ones. “It’s…okay, so it’s small and you have to crouch and-“

Derek stripped off his shirt and dropped it to the floor. The red rash was lurid now, points of blood coming to the surface. Stiles flung the door open and waited while Derek scratched a hand – nails too sharp, cutting the skin – over the rash before closing his eyes as Derek shoved at the sweatpants. He owed the guy some dignity. There was a whispered thanks as the door shut and Stiles finally regained the ability to breathe.

What was he doing? What the hell was going on? Why was he letting a complete stranger invade his space like this? It wasn’t like Stiles was the most trusting of people. He definitely wasn’t compassionate – he didn’t give change to buskers or anything. Yet here he was letting one of the most famous and enigmatic actors in the world shower in his tiny space. Maybe his sadly neglected need to get laid had finally broken his brain. The weird reluctance to let Derek out of his space was new though. It spoke of something baser and deeper. Something manipulative…

Stiles sunk onto his bed, glaring at Derek’s innocent t-shirt. A memory, from way back in high school, floated through his brain. There had been one class, back in freshman year, health, where Stiles had spent the time trying to exactly categorize the color of Lydia Martin’s hair. They’d run through the “your body is changing” speech, again, fulfilling some ridiculous statutory requirement when one of the girls had stuck her hand up and asked about soul mates.

The teacher had dismissed it as rare, romance novel fodder, as unlikely as someone being bitten by a werewolf. But considering his best friend had been bitten and was living quite happily as werewolf back in Beacon Hills, maybe Stiles shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss the idea beyond some kind of weird fascination with holding hands with everyone he met for a three week period. Because one touch was all it took to kick in, after all, according to every shitty soap he’d been forced to watch back when his mom was slowly spiraling into darkness.

When the bathroom door opened, Derek hadn’t bothered to put the sweats back on. He stood in the doorway, rivulets of water snaking their way down his chest, making his skin glow. Of course, that could be the way that Stiles felt like his eyes had been opened, a real Road to Damascus moment. Derek wasn’t just the object of his celeb crush. Derek was his fucking soul mate.

The doubt that Stiles had been wrestling with vanished as Derek crossed the tiny distance that separated them and grabbed Stiles’s arm, pulling him to his feet with a real amount of force. Like Derek was really strong… Stiles filed that to the back of his mind as Derek ran an open palm over his cheek. The rash had gone, vanished as if it had never been there, and Derek’s eyes were clearer, the storm clouds clearing to leave behind a peaceful sea, hidden depths.

“Oh,” Derek let out, a soft and unexpected exhalation that was acceptance and understanding. “I didn’t- I think-“ Derek let out another noise, a frustrated growl. Stiles couldn’t say anything at all, all his words caught up in his throat. He was finding it increasingly hard to even swallow or breathe. Derek seemed to be taking up all the air. Stiles had to do something. And going with the force rather than against it seemed to be sensible. Stiles pressed forward, lips slightly apart, wondering at his daring as he brushed a soft kiss over Derek Hale’s waiting mouth. He was sure that the way he felt, like a lock whose tumblers snicked into place or the final piece being placed in the jigsaw, was just temporary. He certainly didn’t usually end up with getting his wishes and even less often did everything work out just the way he wanted it to. Derek didn’t seem to get that memo. He drew Stiles even closer, until the damp from Derek’s skin soaked through Stiles’s thin t-shirt. And then they kissed, properly, each giving in to the other. 

The sensation that Stiles had been experiencing on and off flooded through him, overwhelming him with warmth and unspeakable rightness. Derek seemed to be sensing something similar, given the way he kept pushing at Stiles’s t-shirt, trying to get it off. The idea of skin to skin made sense. Forget the fact that all he knew about Derek was the fact he found him hot, that all his ideas were from the scraps of gossip news he’d picked up. Stiles wanted to be naked, entwined and so involved that he would never have to let go. 

Communication with words also seemed to have shot out of the window. Instead it was touches, reading each other’s body language, the way Derek sighed, the way he twisted and arched and reached for Stiles whenever the barest skim of hand wasn’t quite enough. They’d fallen onto Stiles’s bed quickly, unable to reach everywhere they wanted without collapsing. Derek’s towel lay abandoned on the floor and Stiles wasn’t sure where his sweats had gone, but the feel of Derek’s thick, furnace hot dick rubbing against his own made all those considerations vanish.

“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles gasped, pulling enough of his thoughts together. The minute he said it he knew it was true. He was an equal opportunities fucker and fuckee but most of his hook ups seemed to end with him on top. Here, he couldn’t wait for Derek to open him, claim him. And wasn’t that weirdly heteronormative. Derek seemed to like the idea as he grabbed at Stiles’s ass, his fingernails suddenly sharper than before. Under Stiles, his chest was heaving like bellows and the water from the shower was being replaced by sharper smelling sweat. Absently Stiles licked at the pool gathered in the dip of Derek’s shoulder as he reached over to the crate that acted as his nightstand, finding the lube with instinct reinforced by experience.

The pressure of Derek’s fingers had Stiles falling forward, resting his forehead on the same dip as Derek proficiently stretched him open, catching Stiles in a kiss that petered off into a groan as he worked in a third finger. Searching for a condom took more time and Stiles had to move off Derek, stop straddling him, to actually find one. But when he did, he took great delight in slicking it over Derek’s cock, before kneeling up. Derek held the base of his cock tightly as Stiles looked at it, wondering. He raised himself up, lowering slowly, feeling every single bit of the stretch. His thighs ached as he stretched himself over Derek, trembling as he held on to Derek’s shoulder for leverage, working his hips in tiny circles until all he felt was the need to move.

Some part of him had expected Derek’s eyes to close, for him to lose himself in whatever dream his head was provided, to go elsewhere to a place where it wasn’t Stiles riding him. But Derek’s eyes stayed open, dark now, pupils huge, as his hands found their way to Stiles’s dick, stripping it fast. Stiles was so caught up in everything – the gleam of Derek’s skin, the way his mouth looked red and bitten raw, the way his hair curled around his ears – that his orgasm took him almost by surprise. Derek caught it though, letting Stiles spill over his perfect stomach, his hand, before Derek thrust up into Stiles, coming hard.

Stiles fell forward, ignoring the sticky mess, and kissed Derek then, hissing as Derek pulled free. Again, that warmth spread throughout him but this time it was sated, satisfied and happy. Sleep, exhaustion that went beyond the usual post-orgasm afterglow, pulled at Stiles as he curled himself around Derek, ignoring the soft press of his towel wiping up the mess, ignoring Derek dropping the condom in the direction of the side of the bed. The sheets felt cool against his skin when Derek pulled them up and then Stiles remembered nothing else but the solid thud of Derek’s heartbeat where his head lay on Derek’s chest.

 

Stiles’s bed was cold in the morning. The sheets had fallen off the bed during the night and he was alone. Nothing unusual there. But then he finally pinpointed what had woken him. Coffee smelled great at any time of the day but there was something nice about it first thing in the morning, especially when Stiles hadn’t made it. He sat bolt upright. Derek!

The man in question was sitting at his counter again, perched on a stool, drinking from a battered mug Stiles had brought from his parents’ house. One of the few things Stiles had managed to bring. He was reading a paperback and he looked perfectly at home.

“Hey,” Stiles said, rubbing a hand over his head. He felt really naked. Not like just unclothed naked but like there was something exposed and raw, a nerve, that Derek had somehow tapped into. Derek jerked around, wincing as the coffee spilled up out of the mug and over his hand. That led to Stiles falling out of the bed, already reaching for the cold tap and the dish cloth beside it. Then he stopped. He could see the steam rising from the hot coffee but Derek’s hand wasn’t red, he wasn’t shaking the coffee off or running for the tap. Instead he watched the coffee drip, leaving his hand unblemished.

Stiles stared and then became aware of the whole literal nakedness and covered in dried jizz look he was currently trying (and failing) to pull off. He grabbed instead for the end of the sheet, wrapped it around himself and sat on the bed. And even though his brain was madly ticking over, the sense of warm fulfillment he’d felt last night still pervaded throughout his body, making him relax as he looked at Derek carefully. 

Derek seemed equally content to watch Stiles closely, his eyes a little wild.

“So. Umm. There’s a couple of things I guess we should talk about,” Stiles said finally. “Like the fact you’re a werewolf, I guess, and that you and me are kinda bonded.”

Derek nodded, jerkily, eyes wide. “Coffee?”

 

The conversation about Derek and werewolfing pretty much went like this: “My best friend was bitten in high school, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Scowly eyebrows.

The whole bonding conversation on the other hand…

“I want to touch you,” Derek admitted. “All the time. It’s difficult sitting over here.”

Stiles looked at him and made up his mind. “We need to do a bit of research because it’s not something I’d ever really thought about. But I’d guess that’s because it’s new? Maybe?” Stiles was itching to shove Derek out of the way and grab his laptop. Derek moved, all right, but he moved towards Stiles, running a hand over his hair, down the back of his neck. Stiles immediately felt better, good almost, a fluttering he’d been barely aware of settling in his stomach.

Derek settled on the bed next to him and didn’t seem inclined to speak again. It was almost like Stiles had suddenly given him permission to be at once more touchy and also let out the more animalistic side of his werewolf nature. Stiles had been sniffed a couple of times, normally by people trying to work out what Scott was doing with him – aggressive sniffing. This wasn’t aggressive. The soft huffs of Derek’s breath as he drew in eau d’Stiles, mouth brushing over skin, hands drifting lower. Stiles lay back when Derek pressed at his shoulders, happy enough to receive the coffee tasting kisses that turned into another make out session soon enough.

Stiles thought he could quite happily stay there forever.

 

“Your cologne.” Stiles had been tracing curlicues in a pattern that mimicked the tattoo on Derek’s back on Derek’s hip, on his perfect abs when the idea came to him. Derek wasn’t the only who’d been doing some sniffing, for all that Stiles only had human senses. Sweat soaked Derek was apparently quite the turn on for him. Although, being honest, Derek was the turn on, the be all and end all of turn ons.

“Hmm,” Derek replied, mouth moving at Stiles’s temple, pressing a kiss there. They hadn’t got as far as the lube this time, too busy focusing on touching as much as they could. Stiles was more than happy with this because a) orgasms and b) Derek _Fucking_ Hale. But equally he was building up quite the list of things he wanted to do to Derek and have Derek do to him and to do to each other. And there should be rehydration and maybe food although that wasn’t entirely necessary and… The way Derek was softly sighing against him, heartbeat returning to normal, just made Stiles want to get started on his whole life plan of making Derek come as often as he could.

Then he remembered what he’d been thinking. “You smell different without your cologne. And when you washed it off…”

“I stopped burning. I stopped feeling like I’d down a fifth of Jack. Which wouldn’t…” Derek nuzzled – no other word for it – against the side of Stiles’s face.

“I know. Wolfy Best Friend. Werewolves do not get drunk.” Stiles grinned and shifted around in Derek’s arms so he was looking him in the eyes. “Which is epic use in drinking competitions with asshole Frat guys. But that’s not relevant.”

“It was a new cologne. They’re always sending me presents. And I threw it on before the premier.” Derek shrugged. “Someone either didn’t know I was a werewolf or did and was trying to out me.”

“Man,” Stiles sighed. “You smell better without it, by the way. Seriously.”

“Thanks.” Derek’s tone was crisp and dry but the crease at the corner of his eyes made Stiles want to poke at him until he laughed or smiled and the creases deepened. “There was wolfsbane in it.”

“The rash? Just as well I never made up a spray bottle for Scott when we were in high school. It was totally a thing. He didn’t quite get that I wasn’t puppy chow.” Stiles gave in to the urge to poke at Derek, only it was less of a poke and more of a caress and, yup, they were healthy young men in bed together and Stiles was really really making up for the dry spell his teenage years had been right the hell now.

“You had a werewolf BFF.” Derek muttered as he hauled Stiles up into a kiss.

Stiles broke it off after a moment. “So you’re really strong? We could fuck up against a wall and you could hold me up.”

“Or we could just use this handy bed,” Derek returned.

“Good plan.”

 

Derek was the one who sacked out this time. Or, to be more accurate, he was still asleep when Stiles woke up. He looked all kinds of tranquil and Stiles didn’t really want to slide out of bed but when nature called… Soon enough, he’d pulled a bag of chips from the shelf above his sink, grabbed a bottle of water and his lap top, and slid into the opposite end of the bed from where Derek had moved to claim Stiles’s pillow as well as his own. Stiles hooked his ankle under one of Derek’s arms and got started on the piece with the most pressing deadline. Halfway through, he couldn’t resist flicking open a news site.

Derek’s picture stared back at him. 

Stiles glanced up at the guy sprawled out on his bed, noting the stubble making his jawline even stronger, the tousle of his hair, the soft contentment on his face. The hard-faced, posing, pouting image at the top of the news headlines was almost unrecognizable in comparison. The whole tone of the article – the panic, the hype, the hyperbolic speculation had Stiles torn between laughing and tearing his hair out in disbelief. How could Derek put up with this? And with all these people apparently looking for him, why had he woken up to Derek sipping coffee and reading one of his books rather than hauling ass out the door. They hadn’t talked about the bond thing then, after all.

Derek’s hand tightened over Stiles’s ankle, squeezing for a moment before caressing up his leg. “Wanna get some food?”

What Stiles meant to say was “yes please” but what came out of his mouth was slightly more brusque. “Why’re you still here?”

Derek sat up, sheet bunched over his hips as if it would provide some kind of protection. His face looked like the image from the website for a moment, closed down and almost fierce. Then it relaxed and the man Stiles was apparently going to be spending a whole lot of time with over the next forever seemed to reappear.

“I want to be here,” Derek said. He looked a little uncomfortable for a moment. “Before… I feel safe with you, Stiles. It’s been… some time since I felt like I was home.” The words seemed to be as unwilling a participant in this conversation as Derek, given the way they were being dragged out. “You’re a refuge.”

“From what?” Stiles shut the laptop and set it beside the bed. This was taking a right turn out of ‘getting to know your sudden life partner’ and into something closer to brutal bare honesty.

Derek didn’t answer. He leaned back against the pillows again, body curled in a c-shape, like he was expecting a blow at any moment. Then, almost muscle by muscle, he relaxed. “The world. What people expect. My manager. Agent. My… The remnants of my family.” In contrast to his physical ease, Derek’s tone become increasingly bitter.

Stiles could taste the anger. “Stay. As long as you want. I want you to stay.” Derek’s face broke into a smile, a little toothy and forced, but a smile nonetheless. Stiles smiled back. “I am going to shower and we should order in and do you like pineapple on pizza?”

Derek threw a pillow at him.

 

They settled down, Derek sprawled on the bed with a book and Stiles typing away. He’d the sudden urge to open the document that had been lurking in his to write file for way too long.

In college, off the back of his creative writing courses, he’d had a few short stories and articles accepted. One of those that he’d held back was only the start of a story, a wild untamed emotional blitz tied in with Stiles’s frustration with his then recent ex. It was too raw for him to put out there, for the people in class who knew them both to read and comment on. For some reason it fitted in with how he was feeling. He could feel the pull of the words, trapped tight inside for too long, fighting now to get onto the page. He was vaguely aware of time passing, of Derek shifting on the bed as Stiles typed and typed, barely needing to pause to think.

He was finally shaken from his daze by the ringing of a phone.

It wasn’t Stiles’s cell – he’d a very specific ringtone. He didn’t have a landline these days. That left one possibility. He tore himself away from the screen to see Derek glaring at the pants he’d left in a crumpled heap in the corner. The ringing was coming from there.

“You- uh. I would have thought people would have been ringing before-“ Stiles waved at the pile.

Derek relaxed as the ringing stopped but he tensed up again as it just started all over again. They listened to it run out again, start ringing once more. Finally Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m just going to get it and you can answer it or crush it or just, I don’t know, switch it off.” Stiles was already moving towards the pile of clothes. Derek let out a noise – a soft growl, if Stiles could believe his ears – but didn’t say anything. Stiles found the small device, a basic model, tucked inside a pocket. The number wasn’t named or anything as he held it out to Derek. Finally Derek moved and took it from Stiles, his face immobile. He glared at the number as the ringing cut off again. When it started up once more, he answered.

“Peter. How did you get this number?”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he should pretend to not listen in. It wasn’t like he could go and hide in another room. His bathroom was pretty claustrophobic at the best of times. In the end, he settled for sitting back down at his desk, pretending to read over what he’d written. He didn’t take any of it in.

Derek was mainly listening to the person speaking. The voice swung between high pitched yelling and low hectoring tones from what Stiles could hear. He wondered if Derek’s ears hurt from the continual whining. He also couldn’t work out why Derek wasn’t just hanging up when he obviously didn’t want to listen. 

“I hear you, Peter,” Derek ground out, sullenly. “Just- Give me a week. A few days?”

Stiles gave up any pretense of giving Derek privacy and came to stand next to him, hand hovering over Derek’s arm, unsure of his welcome. Derek leaned into the touch. 

“I’ll see you then.” Derek finished the call and hung up. Then he immediately switched the phone off and threw it onto the rumpled bed. Stiles ran his hand up and down Derek’s arm. 

“Food,” Stiles said finally. “Food and coffee and less worrying about things we can’t do anything about.”

 

It was later, after they’d ended up back in bed together, the urge too much to even get entirely naked, that Derek started explaining.

“Peter’s my uncle. He’s also the only family I’ve got left.” Derek was tracing lazy patterns on Stiles’s skin. “I don’t entirely trust him – never have. He’s always been a bit different. He’s became more demanding lately. He wants me to take some roles, do some things I’ve not been entirely comfortable with.” Derek followed the path of his fingers with kisses, tugging Stiles’s t-shirt out of the way, making Stiles shiver delightedly.

“But he’s family. I get that.” Stiles was still struggling to get his breath back. Not everyone had werewolf endurance in this relationship after all. When he was able to speak more easily, he sat up. “My mom- She died and it kinda sucked the center out of my family. My dad and I… He started working and drinking and Scott was a werewolf and it became easier to just not try, you know. And I miss it. I don’t miss Beacon Hills and I don’t miss the whole small town thing. I just miss home. There. My dad like he was before.”

Stiles pushed his clothes back into shape, patting at the sheets too. “My dad tried. He did. It just became easier not to try. And then there was the whole flamboyant acting out thing in freshman year of college where I tried to get arrested for drunk and disorderly most weekends.” Stiles made a face. Even years later he couldn’t believe some of the shit he’d pulled. Stiles pushed that to the back of his memory and started telling Derek his story – his life, he supposed, jumping forward and backwards in time, rambling really. He hadn’t really had anyone to listen to his rambles since he left home.

Derek listened to it all, wrapped around Stiles. Finally, when Stiles had mostly run down in the middle of a story about Scott and paste, he said, “When am I meeting your dad then?” and that sent a whole other world of panic through Stiles. He hadn’t really told his dad about the gay thing, or the werewolf thing and now here he was with his newly acquired soulmate. 

“Soon. He… I’m going to invite him out for a visit. Would that…?” Stiles starting wondering if he had enough in his checking account to cover the price of a ticket.

“Or we could fly out there? You’ll meet Peter on Friday and then we can get a flight on Saturday and be in Beacon Hills by evening. You can write anywhere, right?” Derek straightened out on the bed, obviously preparing for another nap. Sex was pretty exhausting, after all. Especially the high quality sex they were having. “We can register there? Or do it tomorrow here?”

“Register?” Stiles tugged the sheet out from under them and pulled it up. “For what?”

“The bond. We need to register it, remember. Just to prevent anything coming between us.” Derek took a deep breath, muscles tensing again. “Most people do it as part of a marriage ceremony.”

“One: how do you know this? Two: are you asking me to marry you? Because, seriously dude, not the right ambiance. I should have flowers or something. Candles. Kneeling.” Derek looked at him and started to slide out of the bed. “Hey! No! I’m joking.”

Derek just raised an eyebrow which had Stiles snorting into his bare shoulder, suddenly glad that the air between them was clear. It made him feel kinda good about the possibility of going home. “We get married with my dad. You can bring creepy Peter. And I can’t believe I’m discussing getting fucking married to a guy I met a day ago, even if he is Derek Fucking Hale.”

“My middle name is Bennett.” Derek reached over and flicked out the light, using the excuse to curl around Stiles, head pillowed on Stiles’s chest. Stiles realized he should probably tell Derek his full name too, just before he fell asleep.

 

The knocking on the door woke them in the morning. It was loud, insistent and like someone was pounding a drum inside Stiles’s head. He grabbed his sweats from the floor, where they’d fallen after they’d woken up in the night and Derek had insisted Stiles fuck him. Good memories. But the knocking at the door had him worried. There were three people who would dare knock like that and one of them, at least, was halfway across the country.

Through the peephole, Stiles could see a man he didn’t know. He looked at Derek who was quickly pulling on clothes too. “It’s Peter,” Derek said, running his hands through his hair. It was pretty much a lost cause but it did make him look deliciously rumpled.

Stiles tamped down the thought and opened the door. “Hey, can I help you?”

“My nephew has a job – a career – to think of. I need to speak to him.” Stiles didn’t move. Finally he felt Derek come up behind him. “And I’d rather talk about this inside.” That was probably a good idea, actually. Stiles knew Mrs. Putswany wouldn’t really appreciate the no doubt about to be shouting match that was going to take place.

In the end, it was all anti-climactic. Peter and Derek talked in hushed tones while Stiles made them (and himself) coffee. Then he grabbed his laptop and leaned against the kitchen counter, pulling up flight schedules and emailing his editor. He tried to surreptitiously watch Peter and Derek. There was something off about Peter, something that made his skin crawl if he was perfectly honest. It was only when he saw Derek’s eyes flash red, that he realized there was something else going on.

From what he remembered from finding out about Scott, one of the signs of an Alpha was red eyes. So what was Derek doing submitting to Peter, letting Peter boss him around?

Derek was quiet for a long time after Peter left, returning to the pile of sheets on the bed and just watching Stiles work. He picked desultorily at the book he’d been reading before finally throwing it down on the bed. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, finally.

Stiles immediately switched off his computer and came to sit on the end of the bed, opposite Derek. Their feet brushed and even that simple touch made Stiles feel at once settled and reassured. From the way Derek’s shoulders eased, he thought the same thing was happening to him. “Do you want to tell me?”

Derek watched him, weighing him up, until Stiles felt uneasy under his gaze. Finally, haltingly, Derek started to open up, returning the confidence Stiles had had in him. Derek talked long into the evening, telling the story of his family, the fire, his ex-girlfriend, his contract. The death of his sister. It was unremittingly awful to Stiles, worlds apart from the sort of life he’d almost expected Derek Hale Movie Star to have. Derek spoke in a flat monotone most of the time, raw like the words were coming from the pit of his stomach rather than anywhere inside his head. He stopped, occasionally, when it all became too much. He didn’t cry. Stiles might have understood that. But instead Derek seemed to treat it all as a recount, a story that Stiles needed to know but not one he wanted to tell.

When Derek finally ran down, Stiles started talking. He knew he cried. It was as if the happy pair from earlier who’d planned a wedding and a registration were someone else, people who deserved joy and love. When Stiles finished talking, it was clear that neither of them were that. They were… shattered people. “I’ve never told anyone that,” Stiles finished up, laughing at the cliché he’d become.

There were no lights on save the lights from the street outside. It was never truly dark anywhere in New York. In the distance, Stiles could see searchlights piercing the low haze of cloud, the sodium mist making it hard to see their edges. Derek was clear in the darkness and Stiles used the light to crawl up the bed, to kiss Derek. Derek responded by kissing Stiles in a fierce and possessive way, a never-let-you-go kind of way. Stiles could live with that, especially when Derek rolled them over, still kissing and straddled Stiles.

When he sank down, after too little prep, and Stiles looked up at him, crouched low, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he adjusted, and he realized that this Derek was the real one, the one who belonged only to him.

“I love you, you know,” Stiles whispered, running his hand over Derek’s shoulders, finding the famous tattoo almost by instinct. He had to say it. “I love you, not the movie star or the soul mate or whatever. You.”

Derek didn’t respond, kissing Stiles to stop any more words. It was later, after they were drifting off to sleep, drained by more than just the sex, that he heard Derek murmur, low and dark, “I love you too.”

 

Stiles was pulling the sheets off the bed and bundling them into his laundry basket when there was another knock at the door. Derek left the coffee maker standing open and answered it. The whole domesticity of the scene was ridiculous. They moved together like a couple who had been living together for years, gathering clothes and laundry and catching up on chores that Stiles had been too busy either napping, talking or having sex to attend to. From the way Derek was looking at him, Stiles reckoned Derek was finding it equally odd but it was as if Derek liked the whole normal life thing, despite the fact they kept stopping to screw like bunnies was anything but normal.

There was a delivery man at the door, a massive box in his arms. Derek didn’t step back from the door, instead pointing at the hallway. He’d returned to his sullen, blank expression. Unfortunately it didn’t deter the delivery man. Stiles eventually shouldered Derek aside and thrust a five dollar bill at the guy to get him to leave. He was running short on cash, between the groceries getting used up twice as fast and the take out they’d had delivered to sustain them. Stiles rolled his lip between his teeth as he tried to count it up again.

Derek dumped the box on the bare mattress before he brought his thumb up to Stiles’s mouth and tugged the lip free. He kissed Stiles, a swift soothing kiss, before turning back to the box and opening it up. There were clothes inside, with tags and labels that suggested they were from stores Stiles had merely heard of and some he hadn’t. Derek seemed caught in a gloom again, unwilling to do more than lift some of the tissue paper off. He started when Stiles laid a hand on his shoulder before closing the box and turning back to the coffee maker. “Tomorrow,” was all he said.

 

Stiles was poking at flights again when Derek leaned over his shoulder. “I’ll get those,” he said, before grabbing the cell from his pocket and tapping at the screen. “We should hire a car too.” Derek lifted it to his ear, reading out the flight details from over Stiles’s shoulder.

When Derek had finished, Stiles had built up a head of steam. “I could have managed. I can pay my way, you know.” He was surprised how fiercely he felt about it. Derek looked surprised, his mouth hanging open inelegantly. Then he closed it with a snap. Stiles grabbed the rest of the laundry and opened the door. It had almost closed behind him when Derek caught it and followed him down to the basement. 

The laundry room was empty again – most of the people in the building were out at work during the day – and Stiles locked the door behind them. Derek opened up the washer and started emptying out the load, still silent. He was wearing what Stiles had come to call his thinking face. For an actor, Derek was very easy to read sometimes. In silence, they moved around each other, dumping a load in the drier, loading the sheets, folding the pile of laundry. They still moved together, worked together.

“Stiles, you know I’ve got money, right?” Derek spoke quietly. “A lot of money.”

“I don’t. I didn’t.” Stiles waved his hands in front of him. “It’s not… I don’t expect-“

“I want you to have it. To not worry. I’m sorry. We need to talk about that I suppose. And everything else. But-“ Derek cut himself off, moving to stand in front of Stiles. “I’m yours, you know. And what’s mine belongs to you. Even creepy Uncle Peter. The crazy fame. Everything.” Derek sounded bitter towards the end, but Stiles couldn’t stop his smile. Derek left off folding laundry and pulled Stiles to him. “We can stop talking about feelings now, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, wrapping his hands around Derek’s neck to pull him closer. The door was locked and no one would be down here after all. And their clothes needed washing anyway, Stiles thought, pulling off Derek’s t-shirt and using it to cushion his knees as he sank to the floor. He hadn’t really had the chance to suck Derek off yet. They tended to end up fucking, mouths pressed together frantically. And since Stiles wasn’t going to use laundry soap as lube, he was finally going to get his chance to take Derek apart with his mouth.

Derek didn’t object, obediently lifting his feet as Stiles peeled the sweats down. There was something extra filthy about the fact that Derek was completely naked and Stiles was still mostly dressed – he had to unzip his jeans to pull out his cock, too hard to be comfortable in the stiff denim. Derek wrapped his fingers in Stiles’s hair as Stiles opened wide, sucking on the tip, flicking his tongue into Derek’s slit. 

In the end, Stiles didn’t have the patience to sink down slow. He took as much of Derek into his mouth as he could, sucking hard, throwing every trick at Derek he knew, redoubling his efforts when Derek let out a particularly heartfelt groan. He tried to swallow, really did, but ended up having the tail end of Derek’s orgasm cover his cheek, his chin.

The look of awe in Derek’s eyes when he looked at Stiles was worth every single discomfort. Stiles spilled into his own hand, kneeling at Derek’s feet, not letting the eye contact break for one single instant. 

 

The fact there were clothes for him as well as for Derek in the box threw Stiles, for all that he was easier with the whole money thing. It took way too long to get dressed though, as each layer necessitated touching and stroking of fine soft cotton, heavy wool, silk ties. In the end, Stiles barely recognized himself. He’d worn a tuxedo before, most memorably to prom he guessed, but that cheap rental and this luxury were a million miles apart. Derek pulled a shining bottle of cologne out of the box but he’d insisted Stiles didn’t put any on.

“I want you to smell just the way you are.” Derek had crowded into him, eyes glazed, before running his nose up Stiles’s neck. They’d joked about leaving marks but luckily all the hickeys Derek liked to leave were hidden by the suit. Stiles’s marks on Derek tended to fade after minutes. Didn’t stop him making them though. And that train of thought wasn’t going to be helpful any time soon.

Derek raised the cologne to spritz a little onto his neck when Stiles raised a hand, some random events slotting into place in his brain. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Derek didn’t even hesitate to answer, though he looked a little surprised at himself.

“I think there’s wolfsbane in the cologne.” Stiles plucked the bottle out of Derek’s hands. “Don’t put it on and surprise whoever is after you.” Derek nodded, settling for buttoning up his shirt instead.

Stiles had his own private thoughts about that. He knew Peter had been insistent about the whole suit and premier and dressing up thing. Too insistent. For all his issues with his uncle, Derek still trusted Peter. Peter was all the family Derek had. Well, except for Stiles.

It was that thought that let Stiles smile genuinely enough to mask his unease completely.

 

The limo was a little different from the cab where Derek and Stiles had first met. Instead of cracked leather stuck together with gaffer tape, the seats were smooth buttery suede. Instead of a disinterested and grumpy driver, the chauffeur wore a suit and called him “Mr. Stilinski” as he held the door open. But there was the same awkward silence, like Derek and he hadn’t spent the last few days lost in each other up in his tiny apartment.

“Peter…” Derek started. Then he buttoned his lips tight and watched his hands curling into fists and uncurling to lie flat on his thighs. Okay. So much for hiding his suspicions. In some ways Stiles was happy that Derek was the one to bring it up. He looked at Derek for a long moment before Stiles finally slid his hand across the too wide space between them. He brushed his fingertips against Derek’s thigh but didn’t touch him any more than that. It was Derek who finally slipped his hand into Stiles’s, holding tight.

The lights ahead of them were equally bright but they weren’t stopped in the traffic. Instead they were the ones stopping traffic as the enormous black car pulled up at the foot of the red carpet.

Derek waited while the chauffeur opened the door before sliding out into a lightning storm of flashes. The thunder of yelling voices echoed into the limo, making Stiles hesitate. He watched Derek pose, slight smile on his face. He was enigmatic, untouchable. Gorgeous. It was almost as if he’d forgotten Stiles.

Then he turned around, smiling for real now, and stretched out his hand. No matter what happened, no matter how famous or how rich or how fucking gorgeous Derek was, he would always, irrevocably, be linked to Stiles. Literally until death did them part. It was from that Stiles drew the courage to step out onto the red carpet and take Derek’s hand. He was blinded and deafened by the wall of noise and light that swept over him. He’d never even imagined this let along experienced it. 

Derek bent down to whisper in his ear. “We could kiss. Really give them something to write about.” 

Stiles considered it. It definitely played into his devilish side. But on the other hand, he didn’t really feel ready to share that side of him and Derek with the entire world – crazy as it seemed. It was just for the two of them. So he smiled and shook his head. “Later?”

Derek ran his nose against Stiles’s cheek for a moment before turning back to the paparazzi and starting the long walk up to the wide open doors of the theatre. He waved with his right hand while his left firmly gripped Stiles’s. It was as if Derek never intended to let go and Stiles was quite all right was that. 

They were about halfway up the carpet when Stiles caught sight of a familiar face. Peter was waiting for them. He raised his head, his eyes flashing gold for a moment, before his smirk descended into something harder and crueler. He raised one of his gloved hands, low at his side, made a gun with his index finger and pointed it at Derek. Underneath the yelling of the crowd, their questions and screams, the cacophony of screeching horns, came a low thump that Stiles knew all too well. A gunshot.

No one seemed to notice but Stiles. Derek stumbled back against him and the dark coat he was wearing hid the blood. His white shirt, however, was a different story. Stiles was aware of someone, someones, screaming and sirens and yelling and a whole lot more flashes going off at the edge of his vision. But he was on the ground, Derek sprawled against him by then, a sickening pulse where the warm satisfaction of finally being together had been, a film of dirt wrapping around everything good and pure in him. Derek had been shot. And Derek was dying.

Stiles could feel the slow pulse of his heartbeat, sluggish and heavy, because his own heart was burning in exactly the same way. He found it hard to breathe, felt the bullet pressing into his own flesh. He was seized with a fierce desire for this not to happen. He wasn’t going to let Derek die. He _willed_ his heart to beat normally, beat for Derek. Ever so slowly, he felt the black pain recede. Derek stirred at his side, face flicking to something not quite human, eyes molten red. Stiles ran his hand over Derek’s cheek, feeling the slick of cold sweat.

Derek finally looked at him. “Bullet- Out.” His voice was wrecked, panting with an undercurrent of animalistic growling. “Wolfsbane.”

The ambulance screamed as it drew up.

 

In the end, the most private place turned out to be the back of the ambulance. Stiles made the EMT shut the doors with himself inside and they screeched away from the red carpet, using their lights to drive a path through the evening traffic. Derek’s hand was still flickering between his normal human hand and something definitely and inescapably werewolfy. He was also clawing at the bullet wound.

The EMT was certainly working towards panic. “He said he needed the bullet out and, yes, he’s a werewolf.” Stiles stopped short of slapping the face of the man but he poked rather pointedly at his chest. The man nodded, his shoulders easing for all that his eyes were still wide and staring.

“Not when the bus is moving,” came a yell from the driver. “Almost there.” Derek let out a pained groan. Stiles started to panic again, feeling that wave of sickness overwhelming him again.

“No time. I’ll do it. Come on!” Stiles peeled back Derek’s shirt, his own hands shaking with more than his own shock. “We need it out.”

The EMT hesitated a beat before nodding and grabbing a kit from under the seat. “Keep it steady, Dan,” he yelled, before pulling out a long pair of metal tongs. Forceps. Things. Stiles swayed out of the way, holding onto Derek’s feet as the EMT splayed his hand wide over the wound. “Werewolf. He won’t bite me?”

“I won’t let him,” Stiles said, pouring all his certainty into it. He was starting to get really light headed. “Just do it or give me the thingys.”

The EMT gave him a glare and then prodded into the wound. Stiles felt the probing like an arrow punching into his chest and then it was over and he could breathe easier. The wound wasn’t closing even though Derek’s eyes flickered open. Stiles grabbed at his hand. He wasn’t going to let go. Then they were turning off the road and dipping down into an underground garage. Stiles approved of that, fiercely protective of Derek.

 

The doctor let him come along to the treatment room when Stiles said the magic words, “We’re bonded.” Maybe it was also the fact Derek was definitely starting to look more werewolf than fabulous movie star but the hospital had to be ready for that. It wasn’t like they were in some backwater after all. This was New York. They had to deal with werewolves now and again.

Stiles still kept his eyes on the top of Derek’s hair as they poured the burned wolfsbane into the bullet hole without any anesthetic. Derek shifted once, involuntarily, before settling back against the bed, his chest heaving. He kept his hold on Stiles’s hand, held on while his breathing returned to normal and even after. The front of Derek’s previously crisp shirt was smeared with blood and some darker material that Stiles didn’t want to think too hard about. Instead he pressed his face into Derek’s neck to reassure himself that Derek’s heart was still beating, despite the fact he knew it had to be, given that his own was still pounding against his own ribs. 

“It wasn’t Peter,” Derek whispered. “But he had me shot…”

A knock on the side of the door had them both looking up without separating. A cop stood there, plainclothes but with his badge firmly on display. Time to tell the whole story, Stiles guessed.

 

It must have been an hour or two later. Stiles had kind of lost track of time. It might even have been tomorrow. Derek and he had answered all of the cop’s questions and then repeated their answers to the detective. Stiles had stepped out of the room to breathe. The coffee machine would dispense something that was roughly the consistency of sewage slop and probably tasted around the same, but at least it would contain caffeine. So much adrenaline running around his body for so long seemed to have left him ready to fall asleep standing.

They had made Derek stay in the bed, which was amusing, considering he was now completely healed. Stiles was making a list of what he had to do, people to call. The whole bonding thing was pretty much out there, according to the text messages he’d been receiving. Turned out that the cops or someone in the hospital wasn’t quite as tight lipped as they were supposed to be. Maybe Derek had a lawyer who could sue or something.

The coffee spilled over his hand when Peter pushed him up against the wall, hand already sprouting wolf-like claws. “Where is he?”

Peter looked completely changed. Gone was the urbane sophisticate who’d coolly treated Stiles’s apartment like it was his to do with as he pleased. Peter’s hair hung in lank, sweat soaked rat tails around his forehead. He was pale and sweating. His eyes glowed with an unearthly yellow – it was swirled through with red, not like Scott’s gold or even Derek’s alpha red. It was a mixture, poisoned and wrong. His canines were elongated and dripping.

Stiles couldn’t breathe. Possibly because Peter had his forearm cutting off all of Stiles’s air by pressing across his throat. Stiles was able to let out only the softest squeak.

A roar, shaking the glass on the vending machines, rattling the instruments in their trays, rolled around the hospital corridor. Peter dropped his arm, dropped the floor, twisting into his wolf form. Just like his eyes had been wrong, so did his whole werewolf look. It wasn’t like Stiles had much experience beyond Scott, but the way Peter’s muscles bulged and twisted into ropes, fur sprouting in random patches before rolling under his skin again. Stiles scrambled backwards in horror.

Derek was still dressed in the remains of his tuxedo, the white shirt smeared with red blood fluttering around his chest. He launched himself towards Peter, barreled into him, cracks spider-webbing out when Peter landed against the tiles. The noise of the blows landing was dull and bloody.

Stiles scrambled out of the way of the claws and the teeth. His heart was pounding again – so much for the need for caffeine – and he could feel himself moving further and further away from the fight until his back hit a wall. There were doors on either side, both closed firm against him. Peter and Derek rolled closer, leaving blood and shattered tiles in their wake.

The most frightening moment was the realization that Peter seemed to have the upper hand. He was going all out, eyes mad and crazed as he clawed at Derek, taking no heed of his own injuries. Derek was almost holding back, looking around to see if anyone had tranquilizers or was coming to stop Peter. The detective who’d been questioning Derek stood helplessly with his gun out. He had to know that any shots wouldn’t help – the werewolves would heal almost instantly – and he might hurt one of the bystanders pressing back against the walls or scrambling out of the way. 

It was only when Peter looked up to catch sight of Stiles that Derek seemed to accept the inevitable. Peter pulled free from Derek, wicked claws outstretched, and threw himself at Stiles. He roared, a deep, bellowing yell that made Stiles’s guts freeze. He could smell Peter’s hot breath, stinking, and he kicked out wildly, desperate. Peter had almost reached him when his roar cut off into a wet, sinking sound. Derek was behind him, close, claws punching through Peter’s spine. Derek twisted and bit down, spraying Stiles with blood as he tore out Peter’s throat.

Quiet descended. Stiles could hear Derek panting and the wet, sour drip of blood onto the tiles. Derek shuddered, seemingly growing more massive before he dropped Peter to the ground, falling over himself, breathing deeply. Derek’s eyes were red when he looked at Stiles before his werewolf features receded, turning him back into the more human movie star Stiles knew, albeit one drenched in blood.

Stiles could feel his heart still trying to beat its way out of his chest but he realized that everything was going to turn out okay. “So, do you think they’ll charge us for the cleanup?”

Derek stared at him, eyebrows drawn together. His mouth was smeared red. He should be everything Stiles was scared off, a figure drawn straight from nightmare. But instead Stiles grinned at him and Derek’s face smoothed. Stiles finally crawled out of his corner and came close enough for Derek to grab. He wasn’t quite for kissing the bejesus out of Derek right then – that would take a shower and a whole bottle of mouthwash – but he settled for the warm settling feeling that came over him whenever he touched Derek, skin to skin.

There would be more enquiries, more cops. There might even be some yelling and definitely some kind of breakdown. But none of that – absolutely nothing – would make Stiles ever wish that the warm feeling settling under his skin wasn’t there.

“You totally killed him for me. I shouldn’t be so glad about that, but I am,” Stiles muttered into Derek’s hair. Derek just held onto him tighter.

 

Epilogue

Stiles was oddly touched to realized that his dad had kept his room pretty much as he’d left it when he headed off to college. His posters – peeling a little at the corners – were like a memorial to his life before. Derek was fascinated, prowling around and examining everything.

“We don’t have to stay here. We could…” Stiles started proposing the idea of a hotel when Derek pinned him back against the wall, hand over his mouth to shut him up. Stiles probably shouldn’t have found it as hot as he currently was. All he needed to do was shift his hips and he’d be able to rub his dick against Derek’s.

“We are staying here.” Derek growled it out before dropping his hand and looking at Stiles’s mouth in a really obvious fashion. “This is your home.”

“I never had sex in that bed, you know,” Stiles pointed out.

There was a cough from the doorway. “That’s good to know, son.” His dad was rocking back and forth on his heels, looking torn between laughter and embarrassment. Stiles felt pretty much the same way. “You should probably be leaving that for after you’ve signed that paperwork.”

“You’re just glad he’s putting a ring on this.” Stiles grabbed his suit jacket. Neither he nor Derek were all that keen to put on tuxedos again. Bad memories. 

“That’s it, Stiles.” His dad followed them down the stairs to the front door. “Welcome to the family, Derek. Defile my son all you like once you get hitched. Just, you know, I don’t need to hear about it. Or hear it.” His dad started muttering about getting earplugs or even his own hotel room under his breath.

Stiles felt Derek’s hitch in breath and heard the way his feet stuttered ever so slightly on the steps. He reached out blindly and grabbed Derek’s hand and squeezed. Derek leaned against him, once more sending that wash of warmth through him.

“Thanks,” Derek said. He might have sounded dryly sarcastic to anyone else, but Stiles knew he meant it. Maybe it wasn’t just him who was coming home, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty close to the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. Thank you so much if you read it. It started off inspired by Baz Luhrman's Chanel advert and got sprinkled with a bit of soul bonding for fun (aided and abetted by thirteenstiel). I also spent a lot of time imagining clothing in this. Title from Little Victories by Matt Nathanson.


End file.
